


The Seven Labors of Phil Coulson

by sabinelagrande



Series: Page-Turners [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Comeplay, Courtship, Dom Phil Coulson, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Farce, Hic Sunt Dracones, Just Forget The Words And Sing Along, M/M, Okay Not Dracones But Lizard People, Ridiculous, Ridiculous Silly Farce, Secret Agent Paintball, Silly, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Sub Clint Barton, Tattoos, what is this I don't even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 13:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Natasha just didn't have time to think up twelve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seven Labors of Phil Coulson

**Author's Note:**

> Let me give you this notice up front: This is the fucking silliest thing I have written in YEARS. Please read it in that spirit, or you will not enjoy it.
> 
> I spammed everyone with this so hard that I feel like everyone in the world should get co-writer credit, but let me thank in particular coffeesuperhero, shadowen, theleaveswant, and dizmo for handling the flail.

Clint wasn't particularly known for the ease of his lifestyle. He spent a lot of time being shot at and a lot of time being shouted at, as well as a whole lot of time generally getting his ass kicked one way or another, either by training or by actual people, friend and foe alike. When Clint finally, finally managed to find someone he was fairly confident wanted to hold him down and have their wicked way with him, he thought maybe it would be a nice break from all that.

He should have known that would be when the real work started.

This was actually the first time since he picked up Natasha- or since she picked him up, which was more or less the same moment. Natasha would have kicked him in the face if she knew he thought of her as his Russian bear, but he did anyway- come on, she was Russian, she was fierce, she was his Protector, it completely fit. In her mind, she owed him a debt, and this wasn't paying him back; this was making sure he stayed intact long enough for her to find a way to.

Under the contract, he had to tell Natasha; like an idiot, he actually did.

"One date," Natasha said. "You get one date to decide if you want to go through with it."

Clint raised an eyebrow at her. "That seems really fast."

Natasha gave him a look. "'It' being the tests."

Clint looked at her in dismay. "Natasha, no, don't tell me-"

"Think very hard about it, Barton," she warned him.

"Natasha, it's not 1890-"

"Decision's final," she said, and she had that look that said she was enjoying watching him beg. "Date's this weekend. Coulson already agreed."

Clint blinked; he hadn't been expecting that one. "Fine. This weekend. It'll be fun." Natasha smiled. "Please don't stop it from being fun, Natasha, _please_."

"It is what you make it," Natasha said cryptically, walking away. "Wear something with sleeves."

Friday night was when the whole thing was supposed to go down; there was a thing with lizard people though, and Clint was in medical for a lot of Saturday, so Sunday night it was.

Long sleeves had been a good idea, Clint thought as he stood in the lobby of Stark Tower, waiting for Phil to show. They covered up the angry-looking acid burn that medical assured him was going to be fine; Clint had his doubts, but at least they let him go.

"This is familiar," Steve said, sounding pleased. "I'm glad to see that people still care about propriety at least a little."

Steve was the little detail that Natasha conveniently left out; Natasha was going to send two grown people out on a date with a chaperone- not just any chaperone, but Steve fucking Rogers, who would be the Ruler of All the Chaperones if such a thing existed. Maybe it did; Steve would probably know.

"They don't," Clint told him, and Steve deflated a bit. "It's just that Natasha- and she will kill both of us if you breathe a word about this- cares. This is the first of many ridiculous things that will happen before I finally get laid. I will honestly be surprised if she doesn't make him run an obstacle course."

"Well," Steve said, mulling it over. "It's still nice to see someone who cares. It's better not to rush things, as long as you don't wait too long." There was something wistful about the way he said that, but Clint didn't want to press it.

Just then, Phil arrived. It was kind of backward; he was so used to Phil being dressed to the nines, he was excited to see him dressed down a little bit- he was still wearing black, which was good because Clint wasn't entirely sure he'd recognize him without it, but there was some color to go with it, which was different.

"I was going to bring flowers," he said, by way of greeting, "but the place around the corner is closed on account of lizards." Natasha snorted. "Can I take Clint off your hands for the evening?"

It wasn't the most formal way to ask, but the most formal anything was never Natasha-appropriate. "You can," she said. "Steve stays with you."

Phil looked at Steve, giving his best 'Of course I knew that' look; maybe it worked on other people, but Clint saw right through it.

As they were leaving, Clint suddenly got it. This wasn't a nice, simple, hey-would-it-work, introductory kind of date; no, Natasha had already decided they were compatible. This was the first test: Win a Date with Captain America.

Natasha was an asshole sometimes.

"You kids have fun," she said, smiling.

"We will," Steve replied, missing the subtext completely.

It was going to be a long night.

It wasn't that big of a surprise when they ended up in Brooklyn, in front of a small storefront with 'Est. 1931' written on the window under the name. "This place is great," Steve said, opening the door. "I used to come here when I was a teenager. It's been through a couple of coats of paint since then, but it's still really good."

Clint let Steve show him in, taking a look around. It looked like your average little family-owned, old-school Italian place, complete with candles on the tables and a big pizza oven in the back.

Except that there were no patrons.

"Well, this is different," Steve said, letting the door shut behind him.

A big, cheerful-looking top came walking over, opening his arms wide. "Steve," he said happily, giving him a bear hug. "It's been too long."

"Max," Steve said, clapping his hand on the other top's back before letting him go. "It's, uh, a little quiet in here tonight."

He grinned. "Mister Stark said this nice couple didn't want to be bothered."

Steve winced. "Sorry about that, Max."

"I'm a businessperson, Stevie," Max told him. "I am very happy to be bought off. Here, come and sit down. Best table in the house, just for you. All the tables in the house, if you want." He showed them to the table, a nice place in what would have been a quiet part of the restaurant. Clint even remembered to pull out Phil's chair for him. Who said he wasn't good at this shit? 

"Sorry," Steve said, as they sat down. "I really didn't know that Tony was going to do this."

"I'd be mad, but I don't think this would have been any better with people around," Clint told him. "'Captain America Takes That Archer, What's His Name on a Date with Some Other Top' isn't a bad headline."

Phil looked at him. "Yes, it is."

"You know what I meant," he said dismissively, and Phil smiled, that sneaky way that meant he knew exactly and just wanted to mess with him.

Clint wasn't a hundred percent sure what he and Phil were going to talk about- they'd always found something before, it couldn't be that much different, even if it was a little awkward- but he was about ninety percent sure that he and Phil and Steve had nothing to talk about.

"I saw you working with a new bow," Steve said, by way of a conversation opener, as the server poured the wine. "None for me, thanks."

Clint looked at the server, and then back to Steve. "Can't really talk about that away from the tower, Cap."

"Right, I guess you can't," Steve said, frowning.

Time passed. Clint found himself tracing the cracks in the paint on the opposite wall; when he looked at Phil, Phil might have been counting the ceiling tiles.

Natasha was _such_ an asshole.

"Do you have any hobbies, Phil?" Steve asked, dipping a piece of bread into the olive oil and eating it.

Phil had an unhappy look on his face. "I collect trading cards."

Steve blanched. "Oh, I, uh. I knew that." He looked at the table. "You should collect stamps," he said, trying to sound cheerful. "Philately, get it?"

"That's funny," Phil said generously- _very_ generously.

"It was a lot funnier in my head," Steve mumbled.

"Happens to me all the time," Clint said.

They lapsed into silence again.

Oppressive, bleak silence.

Clint thought really, really hard about whether this was worth it. Goddamn, Natasha was tricky, even more than usual.

Finally, Steve stood up, motioning one of the waitstaff over. "It's really crowded at this table, don't you think?" he said quickly. "We're barely going to have enough room for the plates. I think I'm going to go and sit, um, over here." 

As he left, Steve leaned over and said something into Phil's ear. "Of course, Captain," Phil responded, and Steve nodded seriously to him.

Clint looked at him suspiciously. "What did he tell you?"

Phil was obviously trying to keep from laughing. "He said to keep my hands where he could see them."

"I honestly don't think people were like Steve in the forties," Clint told him, sighing. 

"Nobody's ever been like Steve but Steve," Phil said, like it was an article of faith, and Clint was once again in the bizarre position of wanting to punch Captain America.

Things were so much smoother without Steve that it was kind of unbelievable they were actually _friends_ with Steve, in more than a 'We all owe each other our lives' sense. Maybe it was just that Clint and Phil had practice with each other, because neither of them were particularly easy to talk to. Clint was aware that he ran his mouth a lot, but there was a difference between having something to say and being able to hold an actual conversation. Phil was kinda the same way, not particularly known to talk when he didn't need to, but Clint and Phil had spent so long on missions with nothing to do but stare at each other that it was learn to talk or be doomed to boredom forever.

It was easy once they got going, Clint mercilessly mocking his love of Duck Dynasty while demanding updates on the episodes he hadn't seen, Phil lowering his voice to tell the latest hilariously dirty joke making the rounds- collecting awful things to say and saying them at inappropriate times was one of Phil's hidden and cherished vices.

Clint looked up to see whether Steve was keeping tabs on them or not, but he didn't exactly see what he expected. The server who'd been taking care of them was sitting across from Steve at his table, and he was leaning forward and smiling- no, leering, more like leering- at Steve. Steve looked the same way he always did when he drew attention from subs: kind of flabbergasted and completely lost.

It was clear that Max was _not_ going to break it up, whether it was because he thought the server had a shot or because he thought it was really funny. Clint felt alternately bad for Steve and amused by the whole thing; Steve really hadn't done anything except try and be nice, and it was kind of cruel. "Should we rescue him?" Clint asked.

"Says on the menu they're famous for their cannoli," Phil said, and Clint called the server back over; Steve gave him a grateful look that totally outweighed the server's look of annoyance.

The cannoli was, in fact, amazing, but soon enough they were going- it took some time to extricate Steve, but that was to be expected. "Are you having a good time?" Steve asked nervously, as they stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant.

"Yeah," Clint said, looking at Phil and grinning. "We are."

Steve looked relieved, like he was thrilled he hadn't screwed it up for them, and Clint was reminded of how intensely hard it was to stay mad at him. "Good," Steve said, smiling broadly. "I thought we- I mean _you_ , but I'd be there- could go for a walk in the park? There's no reason to go back to the mansion just yet, and there's nothing good at the movies right now."

"Sounds great," Phil said. Clint didn't have any experience with it personally, but Clint figured this is about how dates went when you were about thirteen, doing really innocuous things shadowed by a parent- it was kind of a wonder that Natasha hadn't dropped them off at the mall.

He'd have been angry if it wasn't so hilarious.

The park wasn't far away, and it was a very nice night out. Clint didn't honestly know if he could say he'd ever strolled in his life, but there was definitely some strolling. Steve lagged carefully behind, trying to be seen but not heard, as if they could forget that a supersoldier who was six-foot-a bunch and kept saying nice things to people as they passed was seven feet behind them.

They reached a rather secluded spot, shaded by trees, and Steve caught up to them. "Well, will you look at that," Steve said, bending over and picking up a candy bar wrapper. "The nerve of some people. I'm going to go throw this away." He walked towards the trash can and right past it, and when he turned back, he may or may not have winked at Phil.

The answer was probably yes, because Phil was blushing just a little. "You are so in love with him," Clint teased. "This is your dream date."

Phil smiled. "That might not have anything to do with Steve."

He'd caught Clint off guard with that one. "God you're a sappy motherfucker," Clint told him, but he slipped his arms around Phil's waist, drawing him close. Phil didn't waste an instant, kissing him, soft but demanding, and Clint opened right up to him. It took Clint about thirty seconds to decide that they were perfect together; then Phil slid a hand up his back and into his hair, tugging just the tiniest bit, just enough to make Clint groan into his mouth, and Clint knew he was a hundred and fifty percent right about it.

Too soon, right as Clint was wondering if it was considered impolite to rub off on somebody in public on the first date, there was a very loud, very obviously fake cough from maybe ten feet away. Steve was facing away from them, but he was clearly waiting for the two of them to finish what they were doing and get back to him. 

Before Phil could say anything, Clint grabbed him by the shoulder. "Look here, Coulson," he growled into Phil's ear. "When we do this, it better be fucking amazing. If we go through this and it's not any good, I'll honest-to-God shoot you."

Phil actually _bit_ him, right on the ear, and Clint's knees very nearly went out. "Likewise," Phil said, and just like that he was off to talk to Steve.

Okay, yeah, nothing to worry about on that score.

"It's almost dark," Steve was telling Phil, when Clint caught up to the party. "We should get back."

"Why not," Clint said, not letting it harsh his mood too much. He thought about adding something sarcastic about getting up in the morning for church, but he caught himself, thinking about what an asshole move it would be to say that to Steve.

"We'll get a taxi," Steve said, leading the way to the edge of the park and hailing a cab. He opened the door for them, but when they'd slid inside, Steve looked around inside the cabin. "You know, kinda crowded in here too. I think I'll take the subway." He reached into his wallet and handed Phil a few bills. "Stark Tower, please," he told the driver, shutting the door and giving them a wave.

"This is the part where we make out furiously until the cab stops, and everybody pretends not to know," Clint told Phil, as the cab pulled away from the curb.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Phil said innocently, and they laughed. There was a pause. "Wait, why are we not making out furiously?" he asked.

"I will take the long way," the driver said, looking at them in the rear view mirror.

"That is a great idea," Clint said, reaching for Phil.

So that was the first test passed, even if Steve got a little bit of an earful when he showed up to the tower without Clint and Phil- Steve wasn't even playing, so that didn't really count.

A few days passed without Clint hearing a word about it. He never seemed to be in the same room with Phil without Natasha or Steve being there, which was alternately infuriatingly frustrating and so, so funny; Steve and subterfuge were lines that would never intersect, so Clint heard a lot of, "Oh, are you going to the bridge? I needed, uh, to borrow Maria's, um, gun," and similarly eloquent excuses. Clint knew it was a full-blown farce about the time Natasha followed them into the bathroom- granted, a very likely place, but really.

By six days in, Clint had almost- _almost_ \- gotten used to it. When he wandered into the kitchen in search of a snack, Bruce was standing at the bar separating it from the rest of the room, pouring freshly steamed milk into a coffee cup. Clint wasn't much into coffee- jitters were kind of a problem when you were a sniper- but even he had to admire the setup Tony had, characteristically, provided. There was a full espresso machine that Clint couldn't have worked in a thousand years even with a guided tour, next to a coffee pot so advanced that it looked like it could achieve lift-off.

Knowing Tony, it probably could.

"Cafe au lait with quarter-caff coffee, about as bad as green tea," Bruce said as he poured his milk, and Clint didn't try to pretend he wasn't wondering. "No, I don't know how my life got to the point where I knew that quarter-caff coffee was a thing either. Something about meeting Tony Stark."

Clint straddled one of the bar stools, putting his feet up on the rungs and picking an apple out of the bowl of fruit on the counter. "He changes your perspective on a lot of things. I had no idea that you could buy bottles in bars." He shook his head at the memory. "I had no idea you could finish them."

Bruce snorted. That hadn't been anybody's finest hour, and if Bruce had been a lesser man, he could blackmail them all very easily. Still, there was a reason they made him DD/wrangler and not Steve.

A _very_ good reason.

Bruce gave him a sort of wary look, like he was deciding whether to tell him something. "So Natasha's latest stunt was." He paused. "Interesting."

"What did she do now?" Clint asked, not knowing if he wanted the answer.

"You didn't know?" Bruce asked, confused. "She did it to Phil."

Clint sighed. "Oh God, no."

"You really don't know about this?" Bruce asked suspiciously. "She, uh, made him write an essay. About you."

Clint put his elbow on the bar, rubbing his forehead with one hand. Knowing Phil, it probably had _citations_. "Please don't tell me she had him make a powerpoint to go with it." Phil would do it, and he would deliver it straight-faced, and it was a wonder Natasha hadn't made him sit in. 

"No," he said. "From what I understand, he gave it to her, she read it, and she told him he had one hour to stop it from going live on the SHIELD intranet."

"But he pulled it off, right?" Clint said, looking up in alarm. "Please, for the love of god, tell me he pulled it off."

"He must have, or else we'd all have read it by now," Bruce told him, shrugging; points for honesty there. "Though I think you'd better be really, really nice to Sitwell. Apparently he helped- I don't know if the part about doing it at gunpoint is true, but I don't think Phil would need to go that far, honestly."

"Thanks for the heads up," Clint said; hopefully Jasper had forgotten about that incident in New Mexico with the arrow and the suit jacket.

"I'm not a sub, so I don't get it," Bruce said, which put him leaps and bounds beyond a lot of people. "But why are you letting her get away with all this?"

Clint took a bite of his apple. "I can't technically stop her," he told Bruce. "She's my Protector. I know the only way to make her stop is to leave her protection. And that? It isn't just between us. It's registered. Fury would have to get involved, and nobody wants to see that happen."

"I see," Bruce said, in a voice that said he didn't, and took a sip of coffee. He lowered his mug, frowning at Clint. "Like I said, not a sub, but I think I would be insulted. You don't need her to do this to you, especially without objection."

Clint sighed, looking down at the fruit in his hand. The rest of it was harder to explain, harder to justify. He considered lying to Bruce, but that didn't seem right. It was hard to put into words, but Bruce was raw, fresh; for better or worse, everything of Bruce's was already on the table, and it didn't seem fair to hold anything back when you knew that.

"Two things," Clint said, "or maybe the same thing two different ways." He took another bite of his apple. "Nobody's ever thought I meant enough to set up hoops like these. Even if they had been, nobody's ever been willing to jump through them." He shrugged. "I'm selfish."

Bruce stared at him. "That's stunningly self-aware of you."

"They keep me around because I see things," Clint said, shrugging. "I could pretend and put up more of a fight, but that wastes a lot of energy. Either way, Natasha's probably got figured me out already. She always does."

Bruce didn't say anything for a while, studying him. "I wish I'd gotten that minor in anthropology now."

"Psych might help more," Clint told him, munching on his apple. "Dangerous skill to have around here, though. You'd be at risk of actually knowing what's going on."

"I think you're right," Bruce said, smiling a tentative smile. "The last thing I need is to understand you people."

Clint grinned. "Don't rat me out to Natasha," he said. "No reason to spoil her good time."

"My lips are sealed," Bruce said. 

Clint tossed his apple into the trash, washing his hands briefly in the sink. "Enjoy your coffee," he said.

"Enjoy your hoop-jumping," Bruce told him, and Clint laughed.

He didn't have to worry about that, because there were hoops a-plenty. Phil had to gracefully lose to Thor at chess and go ten rounds with Happy; there was a two week break after where all three of them were off on a mission, thank God, and nobody spoke a word about it the entire time, but as soon as they were back, it started again. Washing Tony's car made it on StarkTube, but when Natasha came up with some bizarre mash-up of The Newlywed Game and log rolling, Phil put his foot down. The way Natasha smiled meant that telling her to fuck off had been the actual test to start with- which was Natasha all over. 

And in the end, Natasha really did make Phil run an obstacle course.

Clint hadn't been exaggerating in the least. He only _just_ managed to talk her down from a live-fire exercise, but other than that, he didn't really try to change her mind. Sometimes it was easier to do what Natasha wanted; sometimes it was fun to watch her make people sweat.

The way in which Natasha bound him to a chair and gagged him was in no way sexy; Clint assumed that this was so that he didn't get any funny ideas. She didn't have to worry about that one at all, not when one of the field agents, Edwards, had a paintball gun trained on him and kept giving him apologetic looks. Clint had a lot of questionable fantasies, but this, this was not among them.

The room where Clint was being held had a huge plate window of one-way glass, so Clint could see down the length of the course. Phil picked his way through it with relative ease, on point as usual; maybe more so, because it probably was unnecessary to kick one of the 'enemy agents' in the chest.

He was getting closer, clearly trying to stay away from the window, even though it was impossible to remain out of sight. He ducked behind cover, and then- 

He just didn't come out.

There wasn't a chance that he could just hide there and lure them out, especially when they were just dealing with paintball guns. Still, Phil had definitely gone invisible. There were some dark corners, but seriously, how the hell did Phil think he was going to pull this one off? He couldn't shoot through the window, and storming the door by himself was about the stupidest thing he could possibly do.

"Marquez," Edwards said, tapping his earpiece, but he got no response from his sniper. He was about to say something else, but there was a softly muttered, "Shit!" from behind him. Before Edwards could even turn to look, paint erupted on his chest and head. "Oh, fuck me," Edwards said, but he dutifully lay down on the floor.

There was movement from the open ceiling; Phil swung down, holding the top of the wall and dropping to the floor. Clint followed him with his eyes as he cased the room. Finally, he walked over, giving Edwards a threatening look and pulling his foot back, and Edwards threw the gun away before Phil could kick it from his 'lifeless' hands.

He holstered his gun very briefly so he could cut the ropes; for just a second, Phil put his hand on Clint's wrist, right above them, and Clint hoped it wasn't too terribly obvious how much he leaned into it. Then his hands were free and the gag was untied, and Clint reached into his pocket for the checkered flag, holding it up.

Two of the junior agents walked out of the shadows, looking annoyed. "You're a bastard, Coulson," Anders said, wiping blue paint off her face; she helped Edwards up, who was rubbing at his bald head unhappily.

"Try not to get volunteered next time," Phil advised her. 

Natasha emerged from her vantage point, dropping to the ground and landing in a crouch. She stood, crossing her arms and looking at Phil. "One minute penalty for wrist-grabbing."

Clint sighed heavily, his head dropping back. "Oh, come _on_."

"It can be noticed," she said calmly. 

"Everyone was dead!" Clint argued, ushering the other agents out and shutting the door behind them.

She sighed. "Doesn't matter. He passed anyway."

"Thank you," Phil said, not bothering to hide his relief.

"The two of us are going to go over here and have a very tense discussion," Natasha told Clint, indicating Phil.

Clint gave Phil a worried look. "You do that," Clint said; this was either a really good sign or a really bad one. He went to stand by the window, pretending to be interested in the range being reset.

When he looked back, Natasha had Phil against the wall, her hand around his neck and the heel of her boot dangerously close to a very sensitive bit of his anatomy; Clint turned around very quickly and pretended not to have seen.

"Clint," Natasha called, a few moments later. "We're done." He walked back over, and Natasha nodded at the two of them. "You have my blessing," she said, a smug smile on her face, and Clint wanted to pass out, quite frankly. He resisted, looking over at Phil and grinning. That was apparently all she had to say; she walked out, giving Phil one last threatening look as she shut the door.

Clint still didn't pass out, but he did more or less collapse into Phil's arms. "For the love of _God_ , let's go fuck."

Phil sighed. "I thought you'd never ask."

\---

Despite how incredibly long this whole process was and how desperate they had been ever since, essentially, before it started, there wasn't any actual ripping of clothing or dry humping up against any doors. They didn't exactly stand around discussing the weather either; when they got to Phil's apartment, Phil led Clint directly to the bedroom, pushing him back onto the bed and kissing him. It was slow, the kind Clint actually liked, hot and honest, clothing coming off piece by piece just because there was so much skin to uncover every time. After all that frustration, it was something to be savored, not something to be rushed through.

But soon enough they were naked, and Clint was kind of wanting to get the show on the road- he could stay here just making out all night long, but he wouldn't exactly be a hundred percent happy about it. 

Phil couldn't read Clint's mind this time, apparently, or he was ignoring it; those both seemed equally likely. He ran his hand down Clint's side, trailing down to trace the tattoo on Clint's hip. "'Fuge, Tace, Quience,'" he said, underlining the words with one finger, one at a time. "You are the last person I ever would have expected."

Clint frowned unhappily. "I got it done before that stupid book came out," he grumbled. 'Flee, be silent, submit' was a really cool thing for a sub who did a lot of running around dark places killing people to have, right up until some stupid fucking top decided it was the next Serenity Prayer for lonely Christian house-subs who wore a lot of loud flower prints and judged you in the supermarket when all you wanted to do was buy your TV dinners and Doritos.

Clint wasn't bitter or anything.

"It suits you," Phil told him. "The words, not the self-help part." He drew patterns on Clint's skin with his fingertip, taking his time, and Clint got the feeling he was stalling, getting up his nerve. "I want to see you kneeling," he said softly.

Clint bit his lip so that he couldn't make some incredibly embarrassing noise. "Is that an order?"

"That depends on whether you want it to be," Phil told him.

Clint was past the point of pretending. "Yes, _please_."

Phil spread his legs, making room. "Then kneel for me."

Clint crawled over, kneeling in between them. He tried to make it look good, do it right, sitting back on his heels, knees slightly parted, spine straight, hands resting on his thighs. He should have had his eyes downcast, but he was too busy looking at Phil, taking him in; he wasn't doing anything overtly dominant, just laying there sprawled out, his hands behind his head, nothing imposing about it at all, but Clint was this close to falling on his face for him.

"Tell me what you want," Phil said.

Clint resisted the urge to be honest and say 'absolutely fucking everything', but only because that wasn't a very productive answer. "If it makes you happy, I really want to suck your dick."

Phil gave him an amused look. "Why wouldn't that make me happy?"

"Depends on how much happier fucking with me made you." Clint winced; kinda early to start with the back-talk, even though it was definitely going to come out sooner or later. "Sorry, sir."

"Barton," Phil said, a little more gently than Clint expected, "it said 'smartass' right on the box."

Clint grinned. "I'm really good at smartass, so if that's what you-"

"What I want right now," he said, cutting Clint off, "is you sucking my cock. So do it."

"Yes, sir," he said. Clint stopped; this was a hell of a time to get stage fright, but it was a hell of a situation. Phil had gone through some serious shit for them to get here, during which Clint had mostly sat around being amused. Phil had risen to the challenge and blown right through it, hit every mark, did absolutely everything in his power just to have- just to have a _chance_ of having Clint.

Clint was pretty sure he needed to give the best goddamn blowjob of his life.

He bent down, taking Phil's cock into his mouth. He hadn't sucked dick in a long time, but he was going to relearn everything he'd ever known, he was going to find out stuff he'd _never_ known, he was going to practice at every opportunity, until his lips were swollen and his neck hurt and Phil thought he was a shameless whore.

God, he had to stop thinking about that or he was going to go off.

Clint kept his attention squarely focused, trying every trick he knew to make it as good as possible- then again, he knew that the real trick was that all you needed to do was suck on it and keep moving. Phil seemed to appreciate it, anyway; he laced his fingers into Clint's hair, tugging on it as he guided Clint's head. Obviously he had already learned Clint's chief weakness, and Clint was going to need to step up his game to make sure he could pay him back in kind.

He looked up at Phil briefly, and Phil's eyes were dark, hooded, but he was smiling, even more when he caught Clint looking. Clint looked away; it made him want to smile, and that just would have ended poorly for everyone.

Clint really could have done that one all night long and been a hundred percent happy- possibly more than once- but it seemed like no time at all before Phil was panting, his grip on Clint's hair tightening. Phil grabbed tight enough to make Clint's eyes water and pulled him off his cock. "I'm going to come all over your chest," he said, and Clint moaned unreservedly just thinking about it. "You're going to make sure of that."

That was a hell of a thing right there, make Clint degrade _himself_ like that. No fucking around on this one; Clint had to want it enough to do it, had to prove how much he did. It was his own to fuck up, and if he did he'd disappoint both of them. He was going to do it and do it just right, hell or high water.

Goddamn but Phil had his number.

"I meant _now_ ," Phil said through his teeth, and Clint jerked Phil's cock hard and fast, needing it, needing to _feel_ it.

Clint shut his eyes, groaning softly as the first pulses hit him, marking his skin. He could picture what he looked like right then, cock hard and wanting, mouth open, breath coming fast and heavy, Phil's come dripping down his chest; maybe he was being narcissistic, but fuck, he must've looked hot as hell.

He opened his eyes again, and going by the way Phil was staring at him, he'd been completely right. "Stay there," Phil said. "Hands behind your back." Clint clasped his hands together; if Phil had told him that, he was pretty sure he was really going to want to touch. 

Phil sat up, and he was suddenly very close, right in Clint's space. He grabbed Clint's hair again, pulling him down and kissing him slowly, hard; Clint broke away, making a noise of surprise as Phil wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking it quickly. "Ask," Phil ordered.

It was really hard to get his brain into gear, to stop focusing on not coming long enough to get permission to come. "Please," he moaned, moving up into Phil's hand. "Please let me, sir, _let_ me, I'll do whatever you want, _please_ -"

"You did good," Phil said. "Now come."

Clint shut his eyes tight, shooting across his stomach and chest, hips jerking; Phil stayed with him, wringing it from him, taking him all the way through the aftershocks before letting him go.

"Look at me," Phil said, and Clint opened his eyes. Phil traced two fingers though the mess on his chest, both of them mixed together; he raised his fingers to Clint's mouth, wiping it across his lips, watching as he licked it off. Phil looked at him like he couldn't believe his luck, and Clint wanted to tell him that no, _he_ was the one who won the lottery.

And then they were just sitting there, panting, looking at each other; Clint could feel the enormous, dopey grin on his face, but he didn't care at all, not when Phil was smiling at him, fond and pleased and just so damn _happy_ that Clint didn't even know what to do with it.

"Come here," Phil told him, settling back, and Clint lay down beside him, using Phil's arm for a pillow. Clint had come pretty much everywhere on his front, and he hoped Phil would let him wear it for a while; it was itchy and gross and stupidly hot, and it had been a long time since Clint had been in a position to enjoy it. Phil either forgot or didn't care, because he pulled Clint in, holding him close and kissing him deeply.

"Thank you," Clint said, when he got his breath back. "For everything."

"I'd do it again," Phil told him, and it was like Phil to be able to do that, to cut right into his heart in four words.

"Don't tell Natasha," he said, deflecting. "She might make you."

"I can take her," Phil said, stretching, and Clint laughed out loud.

Phil had done all of that just for a shot at Clint, including standing up to Natasha Romanov, who was easily the second-scariest person Clint knew.

The hell was Clint going to have to do to get his collar?

**Author's Note:**

> But wait, there's more! For more in this verse, see [The Joy of Submission, by Tony Stark](http://archiveofourown.org/works/575201) (Pepper/Tony, Explicit).


End file.
